It's Day
by kyliegrimes29
Summary: "You're gold when you're a kid, like green. When you're a kid everything is new, like dawn. It's just when you get used to everything that it's day." (This story contains descriptive writing about panic attacks, please do not read if that would trigger you)


So just a little backstory for anyone that cares. In the world outside of this website, I am a mortuary scientist. Which sounds super nerdy and long-winded, but pretty much just means I embalm bodies and plan funerals. Yes. It me... the one that makes your dead grandmother look not dead for the deadest thing she will ever do in her life.

Anyway, this pertains to the story because of the mental drag it put me in when I started my career. All the dead body touching and cutting and fluid pumping was interesting and fun while at work, but it was a literal nightmare going home and trying to sleep and eat and act like a human. I'm very used to it now, and its honestly my calling but at the beginning I had A LOT of panic attacks. Something I never understood until I experienced my own was that during a panic attack... your body doesn't belong to you anymore. Almost as if it is fighting you for dominance and you gotta just sit there and take it. Disassociation.

Long story short... I let Pony feel it for a little while too.

When the rest of the world is silent... I begin my screaming. My heart- shaking in my ribcage, is also terrified. Beating so hard and so fast as if it could just try a bit harder and break its way out. Rip through my chest and fall into my hands looking for protection. I however, know better. There is no protection here. I am a foreigner in my own body.

On nights when I scream the house awake, I don't look for solace with myself. My common sense and my trembling hands decide to "split the gang up", and my conscience and I are left to wander the basement of my thoughts without flashlights. We're afraid of our own shadows. This is a mystery that will never be solved.

This is to say, I'm not at home here.

This is to say; my brother's arms are the tethered ropes that keep me from succumbing to the gravitational pull of my panic.

It's not as easy as it used to be to pretend these are nightmares.

It's not as easy as it used to be to pretend I don't remember.

It's as easy as it's always been to lie about it.

My brother's worried eyes are enough for me to pretend I am fine. Pretend I am just as confused as they are as to why I end up on the bathroom floor, nightly. Vomiting up what little food I have sat for hours and convinced my mouth to chew and swallow.

It's not bologna.

I tell myself as often as my brothers remind me.

But there is only so much convincing I can do before my tongue and my nose decide that everything tastes like skin smells after its been burned. Black and hardened. Dead, but hanging onto the beating cells like this is an all or nothing kind of tragedy.

My body rises from the bed and walks into the bathroom. I tell my brother I need to shower and he doesn't question me. I'm soaked. I am covered in sweat and tears. And admittedly urine, if I can look my pride in the eyes long enough to subdue it. The totalitarian reign I had over my body is finished. While every other part of me is convulsing chaos, my bladder did not choose to become the faithful steed and stick around to take orders.

My hands have turned to stone. Twisted and unnatural as they are, they make it to the light switch and illuminate the room. My torso prepares its rebel appendages for the process of taking my clothes off. My eyes clock out and head to the break room of my heart in hopes that they don't catch a glimpse of the truth that waits in the mirror.

The truth is I am a ghost of the reflection I had before the battle started in my head.

And the truth knows nothing of who we were supposed to be.

I let the water run over this battlefield and regain conciseness. My lungs decide they have seen too much of the war reenactment, and take my legs on a brief intermission. I sit in the tub and call scene on "The Water Fountain 2.0". The smell of iron invades my nostrils and my tongue lets the rest of it's comrades know it is rusting. Water pools around me as quickly as blood would from a stab wound.

Every part of me lies in the linoleum and questions if this prison riot will ever end. My heart holds my head in my hands and asks just how long will it take before we let forgiveness crawl out of our hostage cell. A rogue bullet goes off in a vacant lot and my memory reminds us this will go on as long as it takes to see some changes around here.

My vocal cords scream in protest, and I know that this is the end.

This is the worst it's ever been.

I will die here.

And as soon as I have come to terms with this betrayal... it's over.

I can breathe again.

My body comes crawling back to me. And like a love-sick fool I take it into my arms without question. I give myself shelter, and pretend I believe that it won't ever happen again. My head stands at the door of my heart holding flowers as asking for another chance. We all agree we'll "work on it", and we don't elaborate on what "it" actually is.

The beast of my panic goes back into the cave my guilt created. I wrap my arms around my sadness and sooth it as many ways as I can. "Shush" it like a baby and hope it sleeps longer now that it's been well fed.

I can hear my brother at the door. Asking for permission before turning the knob. My shame shields itself from comfort having never before known it's nakedness. My brother kneels down beside the tub and runs his fingers through my hair.

He asks if I "remember what it was about" and I shake my head to stop my bitterness in its tracks. If it ever got the chance to speak to Soda, I'd tell him loving me less would be the best thing to ever happen to him.

"I wish you'd talk to me."

I close my eyes tighter in fear that the control I have gained would escape through my tear ducts at my brother's words.

"There's nothing to talk about. Just a nightmare."

I stare at the ceiling and watch the bathroom lights flicker from Gold to fluorescent. I hear Johnny's voice telling me what it meant to be green. A child. My lips fall into a smile and I welcome sleep home.

I feel myself being lifted out of the tub. I can hear the concern in both of my brother's voices, but I am too far away from awake to reassure them.

"It's a good way to be." Johnny tells me.


End file.
